Joker couldn’t see my bedroom suite, which also took up the entirety of space in my tiny bedroom, especially with Travis’s crib and changing table shoved against a wall.

I’d even gotten the comforter and sheets. All that was magnificent, elegant, even regal.

As it would be.

I’d picked the comfy sectional.

But Aaron’s mother had chosen our bedroom furniture.

Plus I had the storage unit my father paid for (saying he needed it for his stuff but I’d been there, he had two boxes stored there, the rest of the space was taken with the leftovers of my marriage). It held my dining room table and the guest bedroom furniture from one of our four guest bedrooms.

Something I intended to sell should I have needed to.

Now I didn’t and would be able to use it (or most of it) when I moved into Tyra’s house.

More lucky.

“See the asshole left you with somethin’,” Joker muttered.

“Nickel,” I snapped.

He looked at me, ignored my snap, and stated, “Thinkin’ we need more than a coupla trucks.”

“That would be useful,” I confirmed. “I also have a dining room set that it would be great if you retrieved from my dad’s storage unit.”

“We’ll take care a’ that,” he stated, and instead of nodding, shaking my hand, wishing me a good night, handing me my son, and walking out the door, he walked toward my kitchen, around the bar, and to the fridge. He then asked, “Thoughts on dinner?”

I stood where I was and stared at him. Then I stared at the fridge door when he mostly disappeared behind it.

I was still staring when he straightened, looked down at Travis, who was studying the wonders of the inside of the fridge with rapt baby attention, and asked, “Spaghetti?”

Travis looked up at him and replied, “Guh.”

“Yep. Sounds good to me,” Joker replied, disappeared behind the fridge door and came back out with a package of hamburger meat. His eyes came to me. “Skillet?”

“Uh…”

“Dah!” Travis declared.

Joker looked to him then at me. “When does he eat?”

“Now.”

“You do him. I’ll do spaghetti.”

Okay.

What was happening?

“Um… Joker—”

“Drop your bag, Butterfly, and get your kid,” he ordered.

“Are you having dinner with me?” I asked.

“Yeah, after I cook it,” he answered.

I didn’t know what to make of that so I asked, “Why?”

“Why not?” he asked back.

I had no answer to that.

Fortunately, he gave me more.

“I’m here. It’s dinnertime. You need to eat. I need to eat. You feed your kid. I’ll make shit to feed you.”

I liked the idea of dinner with Joker. What I wasn’t so sure about was why Joker wanted to have dinner with me.

Maybe he was just being friendly.

Maybe he was just hungry.

I didn’t ask.

Instead, I shared, “I think the tally now is eighty-five cents.”

He shook his head and then he gently shook my son as a message to me.